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I'm told that I'm supposed to write in you, but I can't see the lines. For all I know, I could be writing in a Betty Crocker Cookbook!

Why am I supposed to write here? Is it so I can read it back someday?

They gave me a stupid bic pen, not a braille typwriter. Hell, I don't even know if the pen has any ink. I could just be making scratch marks, or I could be writing over the same page I wrote on yesterday.

This is dumb. Memoirs for posterity is a stupid idea. Publishing a diary for money because I haven't had a hit song in years is a dumb idea. What sexual exploits am I supposed to describe? Hell, I've never seen a nice rack on any lady, and how am I supposed to describe the look in her eyes?

This is stupid. I'm quitting this and going back to listening to the ball game. I got a bette...